


Learning Love

by sori



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 10:04:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/797090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sori/pseuds/sori





	Learning Love

 

 

## Learning Love

#### by Sori

  
The Sentinel is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount.  
Written for the Getting a Sense of Cliches Ficathon. My prompt was to use the cliche: everyone thinks they're doing 'it'.  
Many thanks to Audra Rose for her usual brilliance and to Spikedluv for patiently telling me to stop obsessing. *bg*  
I've never actually seen the inside of any of the gay sex manuals mentioned in this story. The subtitles I've used within are completely of my own creation.

* * *

**AFTERWORDS: REAL SEX FROM GAY MEN'S DIARIES BY KEVIN BENTLEY (EDITOR)**

He'd miss this place when he had to leave. After all these years it wasn't just a place to hang his backpack, it was home.

The tile in the bathroom was cracking and the wood burning stove didn't work for crap at heating the place; his room was way too fucking small and parking was the pits. Yet, it was home; it was four walls that Blair had spent a lifetime searching for and six years living in. And even though Jim was gone - to the gym or to the store, Blair wasn't sure -Blair could actually hear Jim saying, "It's fucking pointless to move, Sandburg."

Never pointless but it would hurt like hell to walk away.

Blair shook his head, scratched his finger through his short hair, and walked over to the phone. It only took a second to find the phone book listing for the Century 21 Realtors.

* * *

**THE INS AND OUTS OF GAY SEX BY STEPHEN E. GOLDSTONE**

"It was fucking pointless to move, Sandburg."

Blair chuckled as he hefted the couch up higher onto his shoulder. It was completely unfair that Jim could still have the breath to argue about this. Again. "Way to beat a dead horse, man. Give it up."

"Pointless. Way too expensive; prices are high right now," - _and I miss the loft, and the wood stove and the stupid storage locker in the basement_ , but of course Jim wouldn't actually say those things. Blair pushed the couch a bit harder through the narrow walkway, hoping that Jim would maybe trip a bit and decide to shut up.

"Rates were low, best time to buy."

Jim's response to that bit of trivia was a snort and the dangerously low dipping of his end of the sofa. "Sandburg, it was comfortable. Fucking pointless, I tell you."

"I was living in a closet, Jim." Finally, that shut Jim up for just one minute as he maneuvered his body and his end of the couch around the rose bushes that lined the cement path. Jim was smiling a bit and Blair had to wonder about that because his room really had been the size of the closet and it absolutely wasn't all that funny for a 32-year-old man to be living in a closet.

"You were not living in a closet, Sandburg. It was a bedroom. And you were living there by your own choice, I might add." Jim stuck his head around the edge of the couch for a second and grimaced as his leg brushed up against a rosebush, "I don't remember holding a gun to your head."

"Jim, you're pissing me off. Shut the hell up." And for once Jim did.

It wasn't long before the couch was squeezed through the doorway and had been wrestled into place by the new sliding glass doors. The condo was a good place and despite all of Jim's moaning, Blair knew he liked it as well. Vaulted ceilings, wood floors, a nice brick corner fireplace that didn't warm the place up so well but gave some nice ambience. Better yet, it had two full size bedrooms with two bathrooms and for once, Jim and Blair could live together and not actually be living together.

Blair had to stop and look around like he'd been doing at every opportunity since their escrow closed and their real estate agent had given them the keys four days ago. This was his, well half his at least, and no matter how much of the same living here would be, it would also be different. Very different.

Over the last two years, since Blair had pinned on the badge and started getting a regular paycheck, bills at the loft had been pretty much split. Some months Jim had paid the mortgage, some months Blair had written out the check. Utilities were paid by whoever made it to the mailbox first and though it was weird, it worked for them.

In many small ways, Blair had owned a piece of the loft but this was so much better. He not only owned in theory, he owned in reality and, yeah, that made a difference.

When Jim had come home the night Blair had called the realtor, Blair had been pacing around the loft, gathering his thoughts and wondering how in the world he was going to tell Jim that they needed to move. Not just Blair, but Blair and Jim, moving together, and Blair certainly hadn't been thinking of a short term, temporary situation. Blair was sick of a living in a closet, and damned if he was going to stay, and Jim, like it or not was coming with him.

And of course, Jim complained. Jim didn't do well with change on the best of days and certainly not change that came out-of-the blue and involved selling his prized loft. He'd thrown out the high housing prices and the poor market opportunities; he'd even said, "Sandburg, it's pointless" and when Blair had asked why Jim had only put a hand on Blair's chest, right near his heart and said, "Just pointless, Sandburg. And someday you'll -- we'll figure out why."

Blair still didn't get the pointless comment but Jim was entitled to his momentary weirdness and Blair shook it off. Jim had started packing the next day. He'd made a detailed plan that Blair was sorry to see involved lots of pre-putting-the-loft-up-for-sale cleaning followed by a disgustingly organized method of packing that included labeling boxes and listing contents.

Jim had whined and kept whining, and in fact, still whined on an almost daily basis. Yet, until now Blair hadn't thought it was even slightly odd that despite the bitching Jim was still going to move. He was following Blair and Blair was leading and Blair was a big enough man to admit that felt pretty damn good. A little weird, maybe, when Blair actually took the time to think about the whole thing.

Jim had never said he wouldn't go, only that it was pointless to move into a bigger place. Weirdness all around, obviously. The memory still made Blair chuckle.

Boxes were stacked in every corner of the room; plastic bags and duffel bags and a few portable file boxes littered the kitchen counter. Really, it was just a mostly empty condo. But in a month, it'd be home. It had two names on the title - Blair's and Jim's. Besides, Blair thought the place had character, Naomi thought it had good karma and Jim, for whatever screwed up reason, thought it smelled good.

So, yeah. Home it would be.

"Done deciding how you're going to impress the ladies with the new digs, Chief?"

Blair didn't even bother to respond, just flipped Jim the bird and took off out the door. "We've still got the beds to move in." After a few steps he felt Jim fall into step beside him, close that enough their arms were brushing and Blair had to step away ever so slightly. Jim just gave him a quizzical look before shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders.

The complex was going to be a good place to live; Blair could feel it. It was mostly retired folks, with a few younger white-collar types to round out the group. Trees dotted the areas, parking was always plentiful - thanks in large part to a radical homeowners association parking monitor that ruthlessly patrolled the lot for non-residents.

"Sandburg, isn't that...?" Blair felt Jim stop before he heard Jim's words. He followed Jim's head nod and could just make out a man, 5'10", maybe late twenties, brown hair, walking towards a black BMW on the far side of the complex.

"Too far for me to see, man. Who is it?" But Jim was already walking - quickly, long legs eating up the distance rapidly without being too obvious. Blair had to jog a bit to catch up and as they drew closer, he recognized Walt Franklin, a drug dealer that the CPD had been trying to locate for months. "You've got to be kidding."

The man looked back, saw Jim and Blair walking towards him and something in their walk or the look in their eyes must have said 'pig'. He took off at a run. Blair reached behind him and felt the weapon strapped onto the small of his back. Automatic check, weapon - yeah, extra clip - yeah, even though he hadn't left home without carrying his weapon in two years.

Jim was a few feet ahead and Blair was running fast. When the perp broke left and bolted through a side walkway, Jim looked over his shoulder and said, "Sandburg, grab him at the other end." Jim pushed on some speed, barreled down the walkway behind the guy while Blair turned and went around to the next walkway, and sprinted, hoping to cut Franklin off.

Blair tackled him at the edge of the small grass picnic area, landing hard, out of breath and generally being pissy since this was his fucking day off, and his first day in his new home and now he was going to spend the day at the MCU filing reports and interrogating the suspect on who knows how many drug deals. He hated interrogations.

Jim pulled Blair off Franklin and started strapping on the cuffs while reading him his rights. Blair took a quick look around and saw a wallet and a book lying face down next to Franklin's head. He picked them up, opening the wallet and seeing the Washington state Driver's License for one Walker P. Franklin - and wasn't that a mouthful - before he flipped open the book and saw the pictures first, men and more men and all naked and all having fun with each other's dicks. But over the pictures and next to the pictures, small printed words, perfectly legible in all capitals - times and locations of drug deals.

"Oh yeah." Blair couldn't help a grin because this would save him hours of paperwork. Who needed the guy to talk when they had a written record of his entire drug dealing empire? He flipped the book around and said to Jim, "We've got him."

Jim looked him, his eyes dilating a bit, and what a trip it was to actually see Jim dialing up his eyesight from a few feet away, focusing on the writing. "You've got to be kidding. He wrote that crap down in a gay porn book?"

* * *

**THE GAY MAN'S KAMA SUTRA**

"It's not a porn book, Jim. It's _The Gay Man's Kama Sutra._ Blair didn't even look up from the book on his desk. He was busy transferring times, dates and places from the pages of Franklin's book into neat columns on his report form.

"Sandburg," Jim got up and walked around the desk so he was standing directly behind Blair, close enough that Blair could feel the heat of Jim's chest and the buckle of his belt pushing into his back, "it's pictures of dicks. Lots of dicks, looking happy to be playing with each other. It's porn."

Jim reached down and tapped his finger on the page, pointing directly at two men engaged in - and Blair had to wiggle his glasses down his nose a bit so he could read the picture's caption - rimming. "It's rimming. Not porn. This is instructional."

He snorted before reaching over Blair's shoulder, and now Blair could feel Jim's breath on his ear and he shivered a bit before pushing back his chair and causing Jim to stumble. "Man, you two need to look at the porn at home. The rest of us don't need to see." Brown chuckled and slapped Jim on the back as he walked by.

Jim just raised his eyebrows as if to say _see, told you it was porn_ before he shook his head and looked over at Brown, "It's not porn."

"Yeah, whatever. If you two need some help in the bedroom, videos are probably better than books. Porn books, how-to-manuals." Brown walked over and looked down at the picture. "Not like it's hard to figure out. Tongue-ass-dick-ass. Whatever floats the boat, eh?" He winked at Jim, nudged Blair in the shoulder and said, "Me? I'd rather get a piece of that fine little thing," he moved his hands in an exaggerated Betty Boop hourglass curve, "that just got hired down in records. In fact, I think I'm going to wander down that way and impress her with my charms."

Blair looked over at Jim and asked, "You two?" But Jim just shrugged his shoulder and grinned before walking back around the desk and turning on his computer.

"Sandburg, finish the report. Tip off's in an hour." Blair looked back up when Jim added, "Tongue, ass, dick. Told you it was porn."

* * *

**THE JOY OF GAY SEX**

The book was sitting on Blair's desk when he walked into work the following week. _The Joy of Gay Sex,_ opened to page 73 with the paragraph entitled, "The Joys of Shared Anal Pleasure" circled in a green highlighter. Blair stopped, looked down at the book and for a moment pretended not to notice the snickers coming from Brown's desk. "Funny. Real fucking funny. I'm surrounded by comedians."

It wasn't until Jim walked into the bullpen and pushed Blair aside to look at the book that he considered possible locations to hide Brown's body. Jim moved in close, rested his hand on Blair's shoulder and said, "Yeah. Wow - that's quite the porn there, Chief." Then he dared - _dared_ \- to squeeze Blair's shoulder before walking away with a chuckle.

Blair glared at Brown for a second, even though he wasn't really upset. Being a cop had taught him to show no mercy, protect the weak underside and that revenge could occasionally be satisfying. He could do patience; he could do plotting. For now, he'd take the book and run. Not like he could leave it sitting on his desk.

"Sandburg, let's go." Jim always did have impeccable timing. Blair heaved a sigh of relief, grabbed the book and their case file before heading out of the bullpen two steps behind Jim.

They had witnesses to interview, drug deals to follow up on - Franklin's book had been a wealth of criminal activity. Jim and Blair had enough to keep then occupied for weeks, months. At least long enough for Blair to stop thinking about the feel of Jim's hand on his shoulder and the image of Jim's finger pointing out porn.

They spent the day looking for a man that had purchased 10 kilos of coke from Franklin. That volume, that quality -- he was going to redistribute, it was only a matter of time. They followed up on every lead, but by afternoon, it was apparent that all the witnesses, all the bars they had canvassed had turned up nothing. A big, fat nothing that had wasted most of the day, leaving them with no other option but to scour Franklin's gay porn for more details. So hours later, they were sitting in a small mom and pop's Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of town.

"Franklin noted that they'd meet at a bar in town. I think we've hit all of them."

"Maybe his notes weren't so detailed after all, Chief." This didn't seem to bother Jim much at the moment as he casually sipped his ice tea and seemed content to sit in the restaurant watching Blair flip through the pages of the book.

"Yeah, maybe. Just doesn't seem right though. You know, what about that bar we passed earlier? Other side of town? I know it's out of the area we had originally assumed but there was something about the place." Blair reached for the words, trying to describe the feeling. He'd hate to use the word hunch because hunches were fallible and problematic and even Jim didn't have hunches. He just had sensory awareness that he wasn't fully able to process. "Remember, I had asked you to stop because there was just..."

"Something, huh?" And damn it, that was Jim making fun of him. "Something hinky, Sandburg? Which bar are you talking about?" Jim never looked up from eating his enchiladas; instead, he nudged Blair's foot under the table before letting his calf rest against Blair's leg. For a second Blair struggled to remember the comment that led to the question and gave up when Jim continued, "You mean the one with all the motorcycles out front?"

Blair nodded, hoping that it looked like the assured nod of someone who knew what was just said.

"So you mean the gay bar, Sandburg?"

Sometimes Jim could be considerate, Blair realized, when he made no comment after Blair choked on his water. "That's a gay bar? I had no idea."

"Kind of figured that, Sandburg." Jim picked up his napkin, handing it across the table to wipe up the water on the table in front of Blair.

Blair was caught by the long, slender fingers. Each perfectly formed with just a smattering of hair below the knuckles. Strong hands - gentle and capable and Blair wanted to spend a moment and look. These were Jim's hands, round where Blair's were square, warm where Blair's were cold. Hands that Jim used to communicate everything from _stop being a fucking moron, Sandburg_ to _I've got you, Blair._

How hands could say that much Blair would never know. His hands showed his excitement or disappointment, but they were never as eloquent as Jim's hands on even a bad day. Right now those hands were laughing at him, for him, because of him.

Yeah, Jim was laughing at him. Softly, maybe, but still laughing and Blair realized that he hadn't been hiding his distraction nearly as well as he'd thought.

Jim stopped wiping up the water on the table and handed the napkin to Blair. Jim's fingers brushed his, deliberate in their casualness, and Blair waited, watching, as Jim kept the contact. He rubbed his thumb over Blair's knuckle, pushed his calf closer to Blair's before pulling his hand away and picking up a tortilla chip and dipping it in the salsa.

Blair stayed quiet through the rest of the meal, not noticing that he was stealing bites of enchilada off Jim's plate until Jim sighed and pushed the plate towards Blair. Jim talked a bit about the gay bar and the drug problems that he had seen there during his days in vice. It seemed like a good possibility.

After the meal, they headed over there, and sure enough, found the guy they were looking for. A few minutes in Interrogation Room 4 with a pissed off and tired Jim and the guy was talking up a storm - sans attorney - in 30 minutes flat.

Not such a bad day at all.

* * *

**GOING DOWN: THE INSTINCT GUIDE BY BEN R. ROGERS, JOEL PERRY**

Blair couldn't help but stare.

Jim was sitting in the seat next to him, hands on the steering wheel, staring out the window. Blair couldn't twist his body enough to see Jim's eyes but he knew that if he could Jim's eyes would be fully dilated - the blue almost covered completely by the black iris.

He could see Jim's breath in the cold air, small puffs that hollowed his cheekbones and made his lips pucker. It was the last that really got Blair because he'd never really thought of what Jim would look like kissing but this must be it - lips together, glistening a bit when his tongue would sweep out, eyes glazed and focused with absolute intent. Jim would most definitely kiss with intent.

When Jim lifted his hands to rub tiredly at his head, Blair was caught by Jim's fingers again. Blair had no idea when he became so fascinated with fingers. They were just fingers and he had ten of them himself. This time though, it wasn't the look of the long, slender fingers, it was the rough texture, the small lines on his fingertips that Blair pretended for one moment that he could see. Rough and soft, tender and harsh and Blair realized that he already knew how Jim's hand felt. He got to feel those hands all the time. On his shoulder, in his hair, on his face.

These touches weren't secret; they were a part of Blair's life on which he depended. All those moments when Blair instinctively moved closer to brush shoulders or hands, touches that to Blair, spoke of home and friendship and someone always being there.

"Sandburg? Earth to Sandburg?" Blair could hear Jim calling his name but Jim's fingers were almost magnetic in their allure. They were tapping out an uneven rat-tat-a-tat on the steering wheel that belied his impatience at both the stakeout and Blair's inattention.

Rough, yes. Tender, yes. Blair could feel those fingers touching his cheek, softly at first then poking in sharp jabs. Until - _ouch._

"Jim? What the fuck?" And Jim was looking at him, a grin on his face, a smirk in his eyes. He was wiggling his fingers in front of Blair's face like he knew - knew, damn it -just where Blair's mind had been.

"Sandburg," Blair caught Jim's hand, holding it tight and keeping it from anymore wiggling. He shook his head and something in eyes must have gotten through to Jim because the smile died down and he shut up. Of course, Blair noted, the smirk just grew in obviousness.

"I'm fine. I'm here. I'll pay attention. Jeez, can't a guy drift for a second? Man." Small tingle of pride because Blair knew his voice sounded steady, just sarcastic enough, and nobody would have a clue that Blair had just been yanked out of a very nice finger porn fantasy featuring his partner.

Jim snorted and that's when Blair remembered that Jim wasn't just anybody, and yes, he probably knew what Blair had been thinking. Probably knew it was porn in nature, finger porn in particular, but hopefully the part about it being his fingers still hadn't registered with Jim.

Not like he had anything else to do, though, and Blair would be willing to bet that Jim's thoughts had been wandering as well. They'd been stuck in this car on this stakeout for the last six hours. Six hours of sitting down the block from a crap little home, in a crap little neighborhood, waiting for one of Franklin's lower level `business associates' to arrive home. Jim had a hunch - or so Jim had said and Blair hadn't bothered to launch into the unrecognized sensory awareness spiel - that this guy could make some sense out of a few notes in Franklin's book.

They needed that help deciphering Franklin's notes because Franklin had finally grown half a brain and called a lawyer who immediately told him to shut up and stop cooperating. So their information had dried up and they were forced to decipher the notes on their own. No little feat because while Franklin's notes were meticulous, and were obviously about his drug business, he had the habit of also being cryptic.

Pain in the ass.

Friday night and instead of out - somewhere, anywhere because really Blair can't remember the last time he actually went anywhere with anyone but Jim - he was sitting in a truck, outside the slums watching Jim puff air out his kissing lips.

As far as ways to spend a night, Blair guessed it could be worse. Blair didn't bother reminding himself that he'd been saying that exact thing for years now.

* * *

**THE ULTIMATE GUIDE TO ANAL SEX BY BILL BRENT**

"Whoa, Sandburg. How the hell are you able to concentrate on the notes when there're pictures like that?" Jim had stopped behind Blair's seat at their dining room table and was looking intently over Blair's shoulder at the page.

"It's called focusing, Jim. Handy trick." Blair tried for sarcastic but failed when he felt the little hairs at the back of his neck stand on end as Jim's breath washed across his skin. Burritos, beer and - Blair breathed in the air and smiled - licorice. Probably the licorice Jim kept in the top cabinet that he tried to pretend actually belonged to Blair.

"Yeah, right. Focus all you want, Sandburg, but your eyes have to be looking at those pictures. Which are porn. Just like those books Brown has been giving you." It was odd, even though Jim's voice was perfectly deadpan, Blair could hear the humor. Something about the slightly deeper tone, maybe the word inflections and cadence...

"Not porn. Instructional, Jim. Learn the difference." He paused for effect and waited for Jim's typical quirked eyebrow. Conversations just weren't the same unless he waited for Jim's non-verbal statements. "But, seriously, what's up with the gay books?"

"They're yanking your chain, Sandburg. Being the new guy and all." Jim reached out and tugged his hair a bit and Blair closed his eyes, smiling at the brief touch.

"Two years, Jim. I've been a cop two years. I'm not the new guy." He knew he was a good cop, he had no problems with the usual teasing banter, nor had he been upset at the time he had spent proving himself. Still, there was always something missing, something not quite as it should be and Blair figured that maybe it had to be something to do with the job.

Jim's hand rested briefly on his shoulder before he set it down next to Blair's hand on the table. Blair watch, fascinated, as Jim's thumb reached over the millimeters that separated their fingers and softly rubbed Blair's pinkie. Back and forth, so softly that if Blair hadn't been watching he might not have felt the touch.

"They knew you before you were a cop, Blair." Blair turned his head and watched Jim speak, mouth close to his ear, soft breath swirling around them, holding them close. Jim so rarely used his given name. "That makes a difference to them. That and they think...," Jim trailed off before giving Blair's finger one last quick caress - almost without thought, and Blair had to wonder if he even knew he had been touching Blair - then stood and walked to the other side of the table.

Jim sat down and Blair waited for him to continue but Jim just pulled Franklin's drug dealing porn book in front of him and started working. _They think we're a couple;_ Blair didn't need Jim to finish the sentence. It seemed the obvious answer. Brown giving them - no, not them just him, but was there really difference in their friends' eyes? - the books and teasing them about still needing help after all these years. He'd even made a crack this morning, after Blair had walked up to his desk and found _The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex_ on his desk, about fighting their upcoming battle with the seven-year itch. And, yeah, Blair had realized then that next spring he and Jim would have lived together for seven years.

Jesus. Seven years - how the hell did that happen? How did he go from sharing a loft, to finding a home, to _buying_ a home with Jim? Jim his friend; his partner; his brass ring. Jim kicked his shin under the table - and _ouch,_ that hurt - bringing Blair's attention back to the matter at hand. Namely, drug deals and criminals.

"Chief, did you manage to figure out this part here?" Jim was looking at him as if things were back to normal, except Jim hadn't finished his earlier sentence and it seemed important to Blair that he did.

"No. No, wait, Jim. What were you going to say? They think we're ... what?" Jim listened to Blair's words, and Blair could see a flash in his eyes, something dark and a little sad, which Blair knew instinctively that he didn't like. But Jim had to answer; Blair needed him to answer. Before Jim could shake his head, _no, Sandburg, just leave it alone,_ Blair said, "Jim, man, come on."

A command not a request. Blair knew that he could push this if he had to.

Jim opened his mouth; Blair could see he was going to answer when the loud shrill of the phone startled them both. Jim cringed and Blair knew that he must have had his hearing cranked up.

They let the phone ring, watching each other across the table. At last, Jim stood, smiled at Blair and set his finger down on the book directly over their earlier discussed picture. The picture of two men fucking. Using just that one finger, he turned the book around and pushed it in front of Blair. "They think that's us."

Jim's voice was calm but it was a bit huskier than usual. Instead of saying more, Jim lifted his hand and buried his fingers swiftly in Blair's hair, yanking on a short curl. Caress or tease, Blair wondered, and he felt his dick twitch and his head spin. Jim walked and answered the phone from where it rested on the wall receiver.

Jim answered automatically, distractedly, because most of his attention was still on Blair. Blair could feel Jim watching him, carefully, like he watches the world when he's using his senses. Blair got up, feeling the need to escape, to close his bedroom door and put some distance between himself and that odd look in Jim's eyes. When Blair tried to walk by Jim to his room, Jim reached out and grabbed his arm. Blair stilled, waiting for Jim to let him go.

"Sally's okay with this weekend, dad?" Even if Blair hadn't heard the words, he would have known Jim was talking to his father. He spoke more slowly and his normally biting edge became a bit sharper, a little less full of humor.

Jim continued the conversation with his father, making plans for the weekend - that for one crazy minute Blair thought included him - while absently stroking Blair's bicep. Blair couldn't help leaning into the slow, smooth strokes. Jim smiled at him, before squeezing his arm and releasing Blair. Blair patted Jim's hand, for no real reason except it seemed like the right thing to do, and then beat a hasty retreat into his bedroom.

His dick was half-hard and he had a low buzz of arousal that wasn't all together unexpected. Something about Jim and the voice and the smell was playing havoc with his control. It was absolutely wrong and unacceptable because there was one thing he knew for sure - you shouldn't fuck with your partner.

Blair flopped down on the bed, kicking off his shoes and stripping his sweatshirt over his head. He looked over at the nightstand where his small collection of gay books was growing at a shockingly rapid pace. He had no idea where Brown was getting the books, although he suspected that Rafe and possibly Megan were helping, but every few days for the last two weeks, he'd had a new book resting center stage on his desk. Sometimes a few passages were highlighted, sometimes a page bookmarked but all of them were gay sex manuals and all of them were at least a bit...disturbing to Blair's peace of mind.

Jim was still talking to his dad just loud enough that Blair could get the idea of the conversation. Something about dinner, Saturday, Stephen, Sally's meatloaf... The sound of Jim's voice lent a level of normalcy to the night that he wasn't especially feeling.

He pulled today's book onto the bed and really, this book had been more erotic, more...caring, not so much porn despite Jim's words. Still it had been pictures of two men wrapped around each other and in each other, legs and arms intertwined, and a level of happiness so complete that it radiated from the picture, off the page and directly into Blair. At the station, he'd taken one look at the pictures before quickly sitting down at his desk and dropping the book into a drawer. Out-of-sight, out-of-mind was Blair's motto and as long as he wasn't actively looking at the picture he could imagine that his dick stayed soft and his breathing didn't hitch and that the men didn't blur and soften and start to resemble Blair's dreams.

His dick was more than half-hard now so he slid his hand down and fondled a bit, a pull and a rub right through his sweats. And, yeah, that was pretty good. It'd been a few days and despite the strangeness of getting hard with the background noise of Jim's voice, it was still good. Real good.

Twisting around, he yanked his sweats down to his knees and pulled his dick out through the fly in his boxers. Jim was on the phone, just down the hall, so he was distracted and wouldn't be listening to Blair. He wasn't so distracted, however, that Blair could spend any real time doing this.

Quick and hard, fast and relentless that would work. Wham, bam, thank you hand before Jim got off the phone. Blair reached down, didn't bother with the long, slow strokes, the strokes that curled his toes and made him picture bodies in dark silhouette - which he never got because why the hell weren't the bodies solid and real and viewable? - but it never mattered. It was always his favorite jerk off fantasy, slow or fast, shadows of the bodies where the feelings stopped being about the other person and instead really focused on...

...a touch of the hand, and slide of the fingers, and Blair could almost fucking feel his dick start to sing.

He closed his eyes and thought of the new girl in Records that always wore short skirts, high heels and tight tops that never concealed as much as they revealed. Not trashy but erotically classy, and that was always something Blair had a thing for...

...a little spit in the middle of his palm, his hand found its way back to its new happy place. A twist and a small turn, and a thumb teasing the slit, over and around till his legs started to shake.

He opened his eyes because he always loved the look of his dick and his hand finding a natural rhythm together, being selfish in a moment when he could...

...slow down, just a bit, because too soon - oh God, too soon - and then speed up again with a lighter touch, not as much of a twist.

The book was open on the bed beside him, turned to the page he had been reading earlier. Reading, and why the hell he had even been reading about rimming he had no idea but the tongues and the men and the ecstasy so obvious on the man's face had mesmerized Blair. The man had looked a little like Jim. Jim's face, Jim's eyes - almost, almost - and the hands, long fingers, soft touch, and of course it was a soft touch because fingers are like voices and Jim's voice was soft. Blair could hear it from down the hall, smooth and silky, a little rough but mostly not. Blair's eyes kept finding the picture, the look in the almost-Jim's face and...

...his hips started to thrust, his hand tightened and he let his fingers wander, away from his dick, and down just...a little. Right, right, right there.

Jim's voice in the other room saying something and now Blair had his eyes closed, and what he was seeing wasn't shadowy figures, figures that Blair just realized were both quite masculine. Instead, his mind was playing tricks and...

...his hand moved away from that unfamiliar area, and his legs shook because he missed that touch, wanted that touch back.

Tricks of the mind; it was Jim's fingers and Jim's mouth and - _Jesus-fucking-Christ_ -Jim's mouth wrapped around his cock, fingers buried in his chest hair, teasing him, opening him...

...more spit on his hand and smooth glides, so smooth. Quick strokes, fast, fast, fast, he couldn't stop his hips from thrusting up off the bed. Thrusting into Jim's mouth.

Thrusting into Jim's mouth. Jim's mouth and that image was still making his dick scream and his heart thunder, and Jim's voice could be heard down the hall talking to his father still. This was so wrong. You don't fuck around with your partner. Not in your dreams, not in your jerk off fantasies, not in real life. It'll get you trouble every time, but while his mind was talking his body wasn't listening...

...his legs were shaking, his stomach was quivering and Blair could feel the _fucking pillow_ against his hair, caressing.

Jim's hand in Blair's hair; Blair could see this clearly because his mind was sending secret images to his body But this time it's Blair's mouth on Jim's dick, glorious, and big and hard. Hard for Blair...

...Blair's mouth is watering and he's leaking and thrusting harder and quicker and he can _taste_ Jim's dick. His hand is pumping, moving faster, faster, faster.

Images of Jim were center stage now; smooth chest, long fingers, and Blair slowed, but couldn't stop. Dick in hand, balls tightening up, that nice tingle starting in his lower abs. No way could he stop. He closed his eyes and let it go and felt...

...the fingers on his cock, the mouth on his neck, a dark crew cut head hovering above his chest.

He could hear Jim's voice, on the phone with his dad, "Yeah, Saturday. No guarantees but we'll try it, okay? Don't forget...," his voice deep and for once, it was Jim's voice that grounded Blair, soothed Blair, made Blair soar - *God, so good *- "I'll have to ask Blair."

Blair. Blair not Sandburg, and Blair groaned, low and clear, and he could hear the phone clattering onto the tile in the kitchen, he could hear a gasp - Jim's gasp - and he knew Jim had heard. Jim knew what Blair was doing but it was too late, too late, couldn't stop...

...and his hand sped up and his legs spread apart, he lifted his hand and grabbed a nipple through his t-shirt and he had to come, needed to come. Now, now, now.

Now.

Blair laid sprawled on the bed, panting, covered in come, with Jim's voice in his mind, Jim's touch on his skin and Jim himself somewhere buried deep inside Blair - deep in his heart.

When the knock came at the door he wasn't surprised, Jim was nothing if not dependable. He called out, "I'm fine, Jim. Just...later, man. Okay," then almost immediately, Jim whispered so softly he could barely hear, "Blair" before his footsteps echoed down the hallway.

He rolled over and let himself drift to sleep with "Blair" quietly spoken in his heart.

Somehow, the one word gave him a peace that even an orgasm could not.

* * *

**ULTIMATE GAY SEX BY MICHAEL THOMAS FORD**

Blair waited all day for Jim to say something.

He waited and waited and waited until he couldn't wait anymore. He'd given Jim plenty of opportunity to casually ask, _hey Sandburg, since when do you jerk off to the sound of my voice?_ Blair knew that particular conversation would never be casual but still, as far as openers went, he thought it'd be a very Jim-like start.

Jim, as he often did, had other plans. And most of those plans seemed to involve pissing Blair off.

He'd woken up in the morning snapping at Blair - to get the coffee, to write a _little fucking neater already_ on the reports, to stop staring and start working. Jim had ignored every suggestive remark, every carefully dropped hint. When Blair had suavely pulled out Brown's latest gift and shown Jim the marked passage entitled `Discovering Sexual Identities Through Self-Pleasure' he'd stormed out of the bullpen, muttering something about _fucking games._

Blair wasn't all that surprised when he'd gone down to the parking garage and found the truck gone. He'd had to catch a ride home with a uniform.

He knew when he got home that he'd find Jim on the patio. Probably sitting on their newly purchased patio furniture that they had argued over for three days before buying from Sears. He'd have a beer in one hand, Santana on the stereo and he'd be even pissier than usual.

Blair walked in the front door, dropped his coat on the floor, hung his holster and weapon on the coat rack and locked his clip in the lockbox they kept on the top shelf of the hallway closet. He didn't bother grabbing a beer because, sure enough, Jim had an extra beer sitting beside him on the patio.

He wasn't sitting on the patio furniture; he was sitting against the wall of the house, legs bent and arms crossed over his knees. He looked up when Blair walked out the sliding doors and his eyes were haunted, and really, Blair could think of no other word for that look. It scared him in ways that nothing had in years.

"Have a beer, Sandburg." Jim matched words to action and handed up a beer bottle. Not so cold anymore, condensation already beading on the outside of the glass even in the not-so-warm night air. Jim had been out here a while waiting for Blair.

"Been waiting long?" Blair knew the moment he said the words that they were the wrong words. Jim's shoulders tensed and he tipped his back to lean against the stucco.

His only answer was a snort.

Blair didn't have a clue - what to say, what to do, he just knew that he had to fix this and he had to fix it not knowing entirely what `it' was. He slid down the wall and sat down next to Jim, not touching. Those inches that separated them were painful and Blair had to fight the urge to scoot closer, to let his arm brush against Jim's arm, to take comfort in that simple touch.

"So...," Frantically Blair tried to think of something to fill the silence. "About last night...," but whatever he going to say was lost when Jim looked at him, eyes open and pain obvious, and Blair fell silent.

"Sandburg...Blair, just...don't talk, okay?" And that was so unlike Jim, using his first name and stumbling on the words and not wanting to let Blair work this out, that Blair was lost for a minute.

Not knowing what else to do he leaned back against the wall more fully and waited. Patience. He could do patience. Jim always talked in his own time.

He felt the night air drift across his face. They were a little further from the ocean than they had been at the loft but Blair could still smell the saltwater. It was tangy and a little fishy and it was a smell that Blair always associated with the musky aroma of Jim's aftershave. It was the smell of home.

Blair closed his eyes, losing himself in the memories of the beach: playing in the sand as little boy, Naomi telling him that sand castles didn't have to have turrets, that they could be plain, shaped exactly like his toy bucket; Jim teaching him to surf and laughing when Blair finally managed to stay upright and ride the wave into the shore; Jim and Blair walking along the docks together late at night after a dinner out or after a Jag's game, an almost weekly occurrence that Blair had never even given much thought.

He smiled, and it was impossible to think of the ocean without thinking of seagulls. He'd always been fascinated with the birds, how they flocked together then flew off alone, but somehow always managed to find their way back. A gull would fall back, distracted by fish in the water or trash on the coast, and the flock would wait patiently for the gull to finish whatever he was doing. Blair could remember watching gulls circle for hours until finally, a lone bird would fly into the middle of the flock and they'd set sail.

Funny, but sometimes a flock of seagulls was only two in number. Resting his arms on his knees, Blair turned his head and looked at Jim leaning next to him. Jim, who'd been waiting for Blair with a beer in hand, seated on the ground instead of the furniture, resting up against the one wall that had room enough for two.

Sometimes a flock was two in number.

Jim was waiting. Jim had been waiting.

Blair had been staring at fingers and jerking off to the sounds of Jim's voice; he'd been busy buying houses and furniture with Jim; he'd been off getting a life with Jim and he never even recognized what was going on.

Jim had been waiting while Blair was lagging behind. Circling and hovering and not pushing, just hanging out and hanging around. Blair jerked his head up, dropped his legs and looked over at Jim.

Sitting inches away, too far away, and suddenly those inches were more than Blair could stand. He scooted his ass along the ground until his body pressed against Jim's from shoulder to hip. Jim tensed for one second before Blair saw him smile - just a little, just enough for Blair to know that Jim recognized the move.

When Jim lifted his head, Blair found himself staring into eyes that were still a bit haunted, but not quite as sad. There was hope in the blue depths and when Jim's eyes met his they didn't look away, Blair smiled and said, "Fuck."

"Jesus, Sandburg." Jim turned his head and leaned forward just enough to brush his mouth across Blair's lips. Soft lips, dry and chapped, and Blair was so overwhelmed with the taste and the smell and the feel that he couldn't think, couldn't move. He sat there, still and silent, letting Jim kiss him, realizing that he could have this. All of this.

Jim pulled away, rose quickly and said, "Damn it," as he walked through the sliding glass door and into the house.

It took Blair a second, but when he realized what had happened he stumbled up, letting the beer bottles drop on the cement with a splintering crash. Jim had kissed him and Blair had been so busy thinking that he forgot all about doing.

He pushed through the doors and caught up with Jim in two steps, directly in front of the teetering bookcases that they had bought online together three weeks ago.

Blair reached out, grabbed Jim's shirt and pulled him close, tight, hard. He let his lips rest lightly on Jim's and Jim looked at Blair for a second before he pressed closer, his body grinding into Blair's, his hands reaching out, grabbing on, clasping Blair's back He pulled back slightly so he could see Jim's eyes flashing in the darkness.

"Those books are porn. Total porn." Blair spoke before letting his tongue trace the lines of Jim's mouth, slowly, lightly, not pushing, not demanding, just a hanging-out-and-touching-base-and-getting-to-know-you kind of taste.

And somewhere between the hanging-out and the getting-to-know-you Blair decided he didn't want to waste any more time; friends, partners, roommates, who gave a fuck because Jim was here with him, needing and wanting and tomorrow would somehow take of itself. He'd spent a lifetime it seemed being unselfish, now it was all about him and his wants and his needs.

It was all about wanting Jim.

He twined his fingers through Jim's hair - and wasn't that awkward reaching up, up, up when he was so used to reaching over - and he pushed and he pulled and lifted and then it was all about the kiss. Nasty and dirty and a little bit rough, it wasn't a kiss meant to say I love you - although somewhere in the touch of hands and the memory of voices those words lingered almost spoken. This was all about sex and coming; kissing and taking; giving and fucking.

It was the brand of ownership. It was like paying the fucking mortgage every single month - all interest and almost no principal - but you paid and paid, and you loved it, because it was yours. It was yours and it was home and you didn't have to say you loved home because that was already known and understood. And when you finally moved in you painted all the walls, you put in new carpet and you _claimed_ the place.

Jim let Blair lead the kiss until Blair faltered when he felt Jim's hard length crushed up against his stomach - all need, a need so great that Blair thought of all the responsibilities that came with that need, until he forgot that he needed just as much. When Blair's hand loosened and his lips went slack, Jim spun them around until Blair's back was against the bookcases, letting his hands map out Blair's chest and sides and legs. Blair was shaking and his legs were rocking and he wondered if he was going to crash down to the floor, bringing the swaying bookcase down on top of them both.

Jim's hands found their way underneath his arms, supporting his weight - taking his weight - and Blair relaxed. Jim had him. Jim needed Blair, Blair needed Jim and between the two of them, they could handle drug dealers, toppling bookcases, and co-workers giving them gay books. In fact, the gay books might even come in handy because as Jim's hands started working on the snap to his jeans a few pictures of what men could do with strong tongues flashed in his mind.

 _Time to grow a spine, Sandburg_ and the words were in Blair's head, spoken in Jim's voice, and came directly from Blair's heart. So Blair took the words and ran with them, reaching over and going to work at pulling Jim's t-shirt -- that tight, glorious t-shirt that let Blair have a sneak peak at everything he was about to feel up -- out of the khaki pants. The shirt got caught on Jim's belt and Blair struggled for a minute until Jim reached back yanked the shirt up and over and off and finally - finally - Blair was getting up close and personal with all the secrets that the tight t-shirts didn't really hide.

Smooth skin, rippled abs and until this very moment, Blair never realized that he'd spent a good few years believing that this very thing was the absolute best thing, the thing he craved and wanted and dreamed. Years of waiting propelled Blair forward, pushing off the bookcase, shoving Jim hard. He grabbed Jim and hauled him to floor because he was too fucking old to screw around standing up. The floor was much better.

Between Jim's hands and his hands, and more than a bit of struggling, his shirt landed in a pile somewhere on the other side of the kitchen. Jim's body came to rest on him, chest to chest, bare skin touching, and Blair was almost embarrassed at his own loud groan. Warm skin, hot skin and there was so much of it to touch and feel that he didn't quite know where to put his hands. They settled on Jim's back, digging into the muscles, forcing Jim down closer. Their pants were in the way, denying them skin contact and dulling the sensation of hard cock against hard cock, and Blair knew that this was a good thing. If his dick had been out having an up-close and naked conversation with Jim's dick this thing would have already been over.

Jim pressed down more firmly onto Blair's body, stilling his frantic thrusts. He pulled Blair's head up, cradling the back of his neck, before leaning down and kissing Blair. Tongue and teeth, lips and hands, it was a cacophony of sensation that had Blair reeling. Jim wasn't kissing, he was devouring, he was taking and tasting. When Jim's tongue swept out and lingered on the corner of Blair's lips in small little strokes and glides that had Jim smiling a stupidly smug kissing smile, Blair knew that Jim was losing himself in the sensations. All focus, all Blair, all his senses.

Blair lost track of his hands and his body; he was moving and pulling and he knew they were kissing but it was all sensation, no thought. Jim was overwhelming, moving fast and hard; demanding more when Blair would have given less. Jim got their pants off and Blair had no idea how he managed to do it, but when his dick found a good spot next to Jim's dick he forgot to care. It was Jim and his body and - _fuck, fuck, fuck_ \- that was good. Too good. Too much.

Jim pushed and rolled until they were laying side-by-side, until Blair had his hands free and his eyes open and he saw that Jim was staring at him, trapping his gaze and not letting go. Blair leaned forward trying to get to Jim's lips, feel that kiss and that tongue but Jim pulled back and smiled and said, "Blair."

His name had never sounded so good, and it got even better when Jim reached for his hand, holding it tight and pushing it down, down, down until Jim and Blair were holding their cocks together. Dicks next to each other, rubbing and pushing, hands intertwined, jacking them both and just the image had Blair gasping, groaning, calling Jim's name.

The rhythm increased, Blair was so close, so very, very close, and he started to close his eyes, feel it, yes, right there when Jim leaned close, let his tongue swirl in Blair's ear and whispered, "Look at me."

Blair couldn't have resisted the command anymore then he could have stopped moving, stopped jerking them both, feeling his dick and Jim's dick and their fingers brushing and rubbing and working, as always, in perfect unison. Blair stated shaking and Jim was moaning now, deep sounds, rough and gravelly and that had Blair gasping and speeding up his hands until they crumbled together, out of breath and exhausted, covered in come and too tired to even open their eyes. Jim pulled Blair close and softly brushed his lips, a dry, chaste kiss that was not about sex and all about emotion and to Blair it felt ... like love.

Later, after showers had been taken and they had wrapped themselves in warm blankets in a comfortable bed, Jim didn't even complain much when Blair moved in closer and gave him a wet, sloppy, nasty kiss before saying, "You were right, Jim, it was sort of pointless to move into a two bedroom place. Because, man, you are so sleeping in my room."

* * *

**GAY SEX: A MANUAL FOR MEN WHO LOVE MEN BY JACK HART**

It wasn't until a few months later that Blair realized the gift that he had been given.

Brown came strolling up to Blair's desk late one afternoon, coffee cup in one hand, ID badge swinging around his neck. He stopped and tapped the copy of _The Joy of Gay Sex_ that Blair had sitting on his desk. Blair had drawn mustaches and earrings on the faces of the two men on the cover and written the words, "We store our drug deals with our porn!" in black ink. Call it sentiment - or so Blair was always telling Jim - but the books had brought them together in some way and he liked having them close.

Dangerous, displaying gay sex on his desk at work, but Blair had the whole story in his mind, ready to tell when someone asked. A story about the drug dealer that recorded every detail of his business in a book just like this; how he had spent weeks reading the fine print looking for clues and numbers and names. He was ready to share how _The Joy of Gay Sex_ was responsible for 39 busts and 37 convictions.

The story, despite Blair's reluctance to share the important Jim and Blair parts of the tale, was all truth. No embellishment required. It was the perfect story to tell over beer down at the cop bar, O'Toole's: humorous, action packed, successful.

It was the kind of story every cop lived to tell.

Except - no one asked. No one even batted an eye at the two detectives that shared a desk, a condo, and an apparently odd penchant to display gay sex books on their desks.

It took a while before Blair started to wonder why that was. It was Jim who finally clued him in by saying, "Sandburg, to them we've been a couple for years. Now shut up and come to bed. I'm doing something here," before he pulled Blair down and shut him up with a tongue in his mouth and a hand on his dick.

And, yeah, Blair got that now. Their friends probably knew more than Jim or Blair ever really wanted them to know. They knew that Jim and Blair shared their lives. Whether the sex came before or after or somewhere-in-between didn't matter. Lives were already tangled and mixed and lived side-by-side. Details were pointless.

Blair's lips turned up a bit at the words Jim had uttered not so long ago. Pointless. Pointless to move from the loft; pointless to hide from whatever part of themselves made them possible.

This was their life and maybe, just maybe, their friends knew before they did.

Blair looked up and caught Brown's eyes. And when Blair actually looked, actually paid attention, he saw that Brown's face was saying far more than a simple tap on a book and a good-natured tease. In his own way, Brown was asking a question and for the first time Blair felt like he was ready to answer.

Blair smiled a little and instead of joking about the number of convictions or launching into his amusing and carefully rehearsed story he found himself simply saying, "Yeah. That's us. What a trip, huh?"

Brown chuckled a bit, looking at Blair in surprise. Blair could see Brown's eyes, shining bright with pleasure at finally being included in a confidence. It wasn't so hard for Blair to reach out and pop Brown on the shoulder before saying, "Just don't be showing your mama pictures like that, man."

Brown's head reared back and he laughed before clapping Blair on the back. "Your mama, Sandburg."

Blair didn't entirely get the joke, but he got the message. And the message was friendship and acceptance. He smiled and looked around the bullpen only to see Jim lounging on the other side of room, watching him intently.

Jim quirked his eyebrow and Blair knew that the message was also about love.

* * *

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount.


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